Hvita Ulfur aka White Wolf
by Ignatesa
Summary: The Wizarding World is getting larger, and there are not enough places for students, so they must be sent to a school in Iceland. Follow one Native Icelander's story about dealing with this, her Headmaster father, and her Lycanthropy.


"_Pabbi_, I can't believe you did this." Sigrún stared at the immense, at least to her eyes, list of new students for the Cristalis Institute of Wizardry sitting on her father's desk. She flipped through the pages…_Gabrielle Delaceur…Mark Evans…Katlyn O'Reily.... _

"Sigrún, you know there isn't enough room at the other schools. Where are they going to go?" The Headmaster sighed at his daughter. "This is a blessing. We were in danger of closing due to our small amount of students. Only a handful of our people come in every year. Your class was supposed to be the smallest in Cristalis' history, only set to have 5 students before this opportunity arose. 5 students in one year, spread across three houses? When we have the room for dozens more?"

"I don't care; I don't want foreigners at Cristalis. I've read how they treat my kind; like it was my fault the _varúlfur_ bit me!" She picked up the closest object, a bottle of ink, and threw it at him. It hit his chest and smashed, splattering ink all over his robes.

Stefan arched his brow in frustration, and pulled out his wand to perform a cleaning charm. "Listen, _dóttir mín_, would I let you be persecuted?"

Sigrún stared at the floor and shook her head no.

"Then why are you angry? I am the _Skólastjóri _of the school. I am in charge. I would not let them do anything to you." He approached her and reached for a hug, but she shrugged him off. "Besides, I took the ones no one else would teach. They would not have a chance, the same way you would not have a chance if there were no school here."

Sigrún looked back up to her father with disappointment in her eyes. "You may be in charge at Cristalis, but you cannot change what people believe, no matter how much you teach them the truth. _Pabbi_, they will find out what I am, and things will not be good for me."

Stefan sunk into his chair and placed his head in his hands as Sigrún left his office, slamming the door on her way out.

She ran up the oak stairs and into her bedroom, turned on the Muggle stereo, and fell onto the bed to bury her face in the pillow. _He doesn't understand. He's never dealt with the stares, the mocking. _She remembered back to the books she'd read about the werewolves after she'd been bitten…

**_The Exorcism of Bill Ramsey, the Werewolf of London:_**_ He then took Bill's head firmly in his hands and ordered the werewolf to be banished forever. Bill started thrashing around in his chair, he didn't know it yet, but he was fighting the demon for the control of his body and soul. Bill continued to shake and writhe uncontrollably, he was having an attack, the worst he'd ever known. He felt his lips pull back from his teeth felt his hands become claws, and the unmistakable urge to attack the bishop. And he did so. His hands reached up and attempted to rip open the Bishop's face. Two of the burly policemen jumped up to grab Bill, but the Bishop bravely ordered them back to their seats. The bishop then bought a crucifix out from somewhere inside his religious garments, and pushed the cross into Bill's face. Bill, or more properly, the werewolf inside him, went berserk. He came up from his chair snarling and growling and grasping at the Bishop. This time the Bishop had no choice but to retreat beyond the altar gate. Bill, spittle flying from his mouth, eyes wild, began to rush through the gate for the Bishop. But the priest stood absolutely still now, holding his cross up once again and beginning to speak in Latin…._

Sigrún scoffed at the memory of reading this case. They treated it like a disease, like it was an evil being inside that nothing could control. Well it wasn't. 

She left the memory and the song on the radio sunk into her head, an American song. Her mother had been a fan of American music, and the love therefore passed to Sigrún. For a moment, she forgot about her problems and let her body violently shift and contort to the heavy sound of Metallica:

_Bright is the moon high in starlight_

_Chill is the air cold as steel tonight_

_We shift_

_Call of the wild_

_Fear in your eyes_

_It's later than you realized_

With her long blonde hair covering her eyes, flying every way like a mane, she caught a glimpse of herself in the wall mirror. It entranced her, that wild hair, she was hunched over, her hands curled like giant paws, out of breath, her winded lungs sounding like low growls as the air left her body. She had a tall, slender body, pale skin, and blue eyes—typical look of the native Icelander. Though only 11 years old, she could easily pass for a teenager due to her height. But Sigrún didn't see the figure of a beautiful young girl. No, she saw _Hvíta_, the large, slender white wolf she became every full moon. The words of the song sunk back into her thoughts, _ so seek the wolf in thyself…_

"Sigrún?" Her father's voice and a knock on the door snapped her out of the trance. "May I come in?"

Sigrún shook her head and smoothed her hair down. "Yes, _Pabbi_." She stood up straight and turned off the stereo, which was on a stand next to the mirror. "What do you want?"

"You've got your mother's temper, you know?" Stefan entered and stood behind his daughter, who was still staring at herself in the mirror. He calmly placed a hand on her shoulder, and looked at her through the reflection. She, however, kept looking straight ahead at her features, already beginning to appear more wolfish. The full moon was to arrive in two days. The rhythm of the song still pounded in her head. _So seek the wolf in thyself…_

"At least it's something of hers I have." She shook off his hand, stepping towards the mirror and outlining her reflection with a finger.

"True, you may not look like her. You have my nose, my eyes, and my chin," Stefan spoke calmly. "But there's so much of her I see in you…your passion, your fire. The way you get so excited and proud when people look up to you. The way you keep pushing when life slams its door shut."

She didn't respond, only continued to stare at her reflection, a tear trickling down her cheek.

"Sigrún," he said gently, "they don't have to know about the werewolf. We can keep that a secret."

"How?" Her voice was hollow and melancholy, almost a hoarse growl rather than a question. She continued to stare at herself through the mirror.

"Well, there are plenty of rooms for you in the lower parts of the school that never get used…that is, if you don't want to take the Wolfsbane Potion."

"You know how sick the potion makes me…"

"I know, _ dóttir mín_, but with all the people who might be around. I fear not only for everyone's safety," Stefan took Sigrún by both shoulders and gently turned her to face him, "especially yours. You'd have the safety of my office at Cristalis, and you'd easily be able to cover why you come to my office rather than an abandoned room in the caverns of the school."

"Very well, _Pabbi._ I will try." She embraced him tightly, as if more for safety than comfort.

"Everything will be fine, you got that?" Stefan sighed as he held his daughter close.


End file.
